Plunge
by balfies
Summary: Four years after winning the Hunger Games, Cato goes to Peacekeeper Training. There, he befriends a quiet man from 12 named Gale. But unbeknownst to Cato, his only friend has a burning vendetta against him... AU, Clato implied, Everthorne as angsty and unrequited as Suzanne made it.
1. Canvas Bag

_A/N: Hello there. Never written an AU before – always too caught up in preserving the canon. So here's something new._

Cato dumps his bag onto the lower bunk.

Finally, he's actually doing something after the months of restlessness in the village. He glances at the healing slit on the underside of his wrist again. He won't get used to the indentichip they put in him, he knows that. Wishes they still used dog tags.

A tall figure blots out the light from the door, then passes Cato and drops his satchel on a bunk three down. Cato doesn't look at the dark-haired man. Gets on with organising his things – granted, there's not much in the bag. Toiletries; a few spare clothes; his father's compass; a knife. Peacekeeper Training usually confiscates unauthorised weapons, but you know. Victor's privileges and that.

He turns the knife over in his hands. It's hers. He hasn't used it. He plans to never use it.

The back of Cato's neck pricks from the glances of foreign eyes; the dark-haired man three bunks down is staring at him. Cato meets his gaze – neither looks away.

"Yeah?" Cato demands.

"Nothing," the man says. "Just thought I recognised you."

Cato looks at the man. He's thin – outer-district thin – and his face has some years on it.

"You're not from 2, are you?"

"Nope. Volunteered."

"From where?"

"12."

"Right."

Cato goes back to his things. He has nothing else to do with them, but he refolds the shirt on top to avoid conversation.

"You know, I think I do recognise you."

Here we go.

"The Games," says the man.

"Yeah. 74th." He puts her knife under the mattress.

"Right," the man nods. "Remember that one vividly."

Cato says nothing, still looking down at the remainder of his possessions on the bed. The man rips open his own bag and starts rifling through it for something. Cato sweeps his things to the foot of the bed and collapses onto it. He can feel the knife through the thin mattress, its outline so familiar to him after four years.

/

That night, they sit across from each other at the dinner mess. Cato has ignored attempts at conversation. He doesn't feel like talking. The dark-haired man seemed to get that when Cato indicated towards the seat opposite him, nodding at him silently.

They eat their dry food in silence.

/

It's after a week of gruelling, but very familiar, training shared in silent companionship until Cato talks to the man again. His voice is hoarse after a week of only speaking when spoken to.

"Why'd you leave 12?"

The man says nothing, and continues polishing his boot.

"I heard the Capital's been letting regulations slide after the 74th," Cato continues, "what with their softspot for your two."

The man's knuckles whiten around the brush. He stops shining the surface, and looks up at Cato.

Then shakes his head and continues shining.

"Gonna give me anything at all?"

The man shrugs.

"I needed to get out," he says.

Cato nods.

"How 'bout you? Victor's village too rough for your liking?"

Cato laughs gruffly.

"Nah, same reason you're here. An escape."

The man spits on the toe of his boot and continues polishing.

"You have a name?" Cato asks.

The man looks up at him again.

"Yeah. Gale."

/

**A/N:**_ It's been a while. This little AU burst into my head a month or so ago, and I rediscovered the document while procrastinating this evening. Weird – never tried an AU before! Hope it's something I can get enthusiastic enough to finish swiftly. (Also hope if I do continue with it swiftly that it doesn't get in the way of, hey, I don't know, my freaking HSC oh my god Emma what are you DOING WITH YOUR LIFE YOU HAVE FINAL EXAMS.)_

_Anyway._


	2. Oatmeal

The bunker's door swings open, dust settling around its frame. The Sergeant yells an order of awakening. Cato rips himself out of bed with all the others.

It's abhorrently early - four years in the Victors' Village has weakened Cato's once-meticulous regime.

Before the 74th, he'd wake at 4.30, swig a little of the foulest drink known to mankind that branded itself as an EnergyTwist, then run up the mountain and back down again before heading into the Training Centre at 6. He's spar for an hour and a half, take a break and change shoes, then participate in whatever the Driller wanted to drill them in that day. Then lunch, then more sparring, then Survival Class - learning about plants to eat in different environments and shelter construction and knot-tying or whatever. Then another break, before afternoon sparring. Brutal, but predictable. No variation. No need to think.

Retirement from that was a shock. Getting back into it is worse.

His feet ache from the neverending tiredness that he yearned for in the Village - the sort of exhaustion beyond the point of sleep, where sheer adrenaline keeps your veins pumping. The Sergeant gives sharp instructions for the day ahead, split in hourly sections. They are to be memorised and adhered to without question.

"Breakfast. Cardio. Cardio. Artillery. Lunch. Management. Management. History. Stamina. Dinner. Settle. Lights-off." Orders are barked at the Peacekeepers-to-be. There is a chorus of "Yes Ma'am!" from the soldiers. The Sergeant stamps her feet together, and proceeds to the next bunker in her block.

/

Cato swallows his sticky oats as best he can. A splinter from his spoon jabs under his nail. He curses lowly, picking at it as Gale sits next to him.

"That knife under your mattress," Gale says as the splinter finally comes free.

"What of it?"

"Why d'you have it?"

Cato frowns. "Why d'you think? I liked being armed."

"Yeah, but not with knives."

It's the first thing like conversation Gale's made that doesn't revolve around the training.

"What do you mean?"

"You never touch knives whenever we have artillery. Why?"

Cato grinds down the last of his oatmeal with his spoon, then shovels it into his mouth before answering.

"I just don't like any other knives," he says.

Gale frowns, but Cato moves away, stacking his bowl and spoon on the dishes rack. Gale shrugs and does the same, knowing he won't get anything else for a response.

/

Cato goes back to the bunker. He pulls Clove's knife from under the mattress, nods in affirmation of its continued presence, then replaces it. He doesn't like that Gale knows about it. But he won't know the real reason he doesn't do the knives in artillery.

No one can do the knives justice. No one flicks them with as much skill as she ever did.

Touching the knives would be an insult to Clove. Throwing them would be like spitting on a masterpiece.

/

_**A/N: My name is Emma and when I do write fanfics I update them at months at a time pleased to meet you. I need a holiday project, so I guess this'll be it, then. Hope it suffices...**_


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